


Painting Dreams

by pluginbaby



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Gay, How Do I Tag, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Sad, Sad Ending, What Was I Thinking?, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 21:28:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10579836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluginbaby/pseuds/pluginbaby
Summary: Two boys meet in a recurring dream, but only one of them gets to wake up every morning.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Short story I wrote a little while ago, because I needed something sad and gay. Was gonna make this a phan thing, but changed my mind and used my OCs instead. You can pretend it's phan if that makes you happy though.

Red skies, yellow grass with purple flowers, and a warm breeze smelling like cotton candy. Dreams were nice sometimes, though Chester preferred not having them at all lately.

He would wake up and be missing the other person in them, but he’d want the dreams to go away so he wouldn’t have to watch the other die every night. It was always the same person, the same stranger, and they always died.

 

The first night, Chester was standing on a meadow. As he turned around, he saw a boy, around his age, smiling at him from afar. But the boy fell to the ground before he could reach him, shot in his back, and Chester had woken up, startled, at 5 AM.

He couldn’t go back to sleep after that. Furthermore, he found going back to sleep then pointless since he had to get up at 6 AM and get ready for work anyway.

 

Chester worked at a nearby grocery store, and most of his days were the same. Open the check out, put groceries on the shelves, the usual stuff. His days felt more like dreams than his actual dreams. In his actual dreams he didn’t have to daydream. He felt free at night.

Until that one dream kept coming back.

 

While every day was the same - same customers, same routines - his dreams, even the recurring one, changed at least a little bit every night.

The boy kept coming back to the meadow, but for each night he came a little closer.

 

“Hi”, the boy said.

“Hi”, Chester replied.

“I’m Kyle. Kyle Quincy”. The boy reached out his hand for Chester to take - which he did.

“I’m Chester. Ches-...”

 

Kyle fell to the ground, once again shot, before Chester could even finish, and so he woke up.

That morning Chester went to work with a headache, still shaken up by the dream. It was one thing to watch a stranger get shot from a distance, but it was another thing seeing someone die so close to you. Holding your hand.

 

“I never got your full name”, Kyle said the following night.

“Chester Morgan. Just call me Chess”, Chester replied. “Does it hurt?”

“No”, said Kyle.

 

He didn’t ask “Did what hurt?” or even look confused by the question. Not even for a second. His answer was calm, and he’d clearly understood what Chester had meant by it.

Does it hurt getting shot? Does it hurt dying?

 

“I’m dreaming though, right?” Chester asked.

“Yes, I believe so”, Kyle answered, still calm.

 

Chester hesitated for a bit, unsure of what the next appropriate question would be. And while neither of them said anything, Kyle died again, and Chester woke up, sweating.

 

On the sixth night of having the dream, and yes, Chester kept count, he started by asking, “How is this possible?”

“How is what possible?” Kyle inquired.

“I’m dreaming, but it’s always this dream. I mean it changes, but it’s always this place, always you. How is that possible?”

“I can’t say”.

“Can’t or won’t?” Chester asked.

 

He didn’t get an answer to that question, only a smile. Then Kyle proceeded by saying, “I like this place. How did you come up with this?”

“I don’t know. I painted it once, but-...”

“You paint?” Kyle interrupted him, seemingly amazed by this. And by such an insignificant thing, Chester thought.

“Yes, but honestly, I don’t think that’s what we should focus on right now”.

“Why not? We’ve got time, don’t we? We can talk about anything!”

“Do we really have time, though? I mean, you have a pretty bad habit of dying every night. How is that possible?”

Kyle sighed, but didn’t stop smiling. He was always smiling. “Well, it’s  _ your  _ dream, isn’t it? Why don’t you tell me how that’s possible?”

 

Chester went silent for a moment, thinking, and was just about to reply when the dream stopped. It stopped as it always did, and woke him up.

 

They sat in the yellow grass on the seventh night, looking at the purple flowers.

 

“Are you real?” was the first thing Chester said.

“As real as anyone, I suppose”, was Kyle’s answer.

“Don’t fuck with me. Are you really here, or are you just part of my imagination?”

“Are the two mutually exclusive?”

“Logically speaking-...”   
“The sky is red. ‘Logically speaking’, screw logic! Now,  _ probably  _ speaking, they might be mutually exclusive, but maybe-...”   
“Maybe I’m going bonkers!” Chester exclaimed.

“Maybe you’re going bonkers”, Kyle agreed, fixing his eyes on the sky.

“Say you are real, by my definition, then… Are you dead?”

“What, Chess, like a ghost?”   
“Put it like that and it sounds silly, but I mean, don’t you believe there’s gotta be something after this life? I was thinking, maybe you’re on the other side, and I found a way over there?”

“So would this be heaven or hell?” Kyle asked.

 

Chester turned to look at the boy sitting next to him. Kyle was looking right back at him, calm as ever.

 

“I’d say this is heaven. It’s peaceful, and beautiful, but-...” Pause.

“But I die, over and over again?”

“Well, yes. So that makes it seem more like hell”.

“No”.

“No what?”

“No, this isn’t the afterlife”, Kyle explained.

“So it’s just a dream?”

“Just a dream”.

 

On the eighth night, they weren’t sitting in the yellow grass, looking at the purple flowers. They were sat on a picnic blanket, facing each other.

 

“But why do you have to die?” Chester asked.

“I’m not sure. Maybe that’s just your imagination”.

“All of this is my imagination, isn’t it? But you, you’re like self-aware, are you not?”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right”.

“For fuck’s sake, Kyle! Can’t you just-... I don’t know, disagree with me? Just have an opinion or something! I’m going mad over here, if you can’t tell”.

Kyle chuckled. “I’m sorry! It’s just-... I don’t know how this works either. All I know is who I am, and that I’m in your dreams. I have thoughts, feelings, and memories, but I don’t know if I even exist outside of your head or not.” Kyle’s expression changed. He looked sad, probably for the first time. “I don’t know why dying doesn’t hurt, or where I go when you’re awake”. 

 

Chester felt bad for him. Feeling bad for someone that probably didn’t exist felt confusing. Though Kyle seemed self-aware. He spoke in a way that Chester wouldn’t imagine. He didn’t dream of people like he dreamt of Kyle, however crazy that may sound. Besides, the dreams were recurring - so much that it just couldn’t be normal. All of this led Chester to believe that Kyle did exist after all, somehow, and his dreams were more than just that.

 

“How old are you?” Chester asked.

Kyle gave him a confused look. “What?”

“Well, you said you knew who you are. Thoughts, feelings, memories. I wanna get to know you! How old are you?”

Kyle hesitated, but went back to smiling again as he answered, “I’m 23! And you?”

“I’m 25!”

 

Chester woke up after that. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he became suddenly aware that he was crying about Kyle’s eighth death. He tried to comfort himself that at least he made Kyle smile again.

 

Night number nine.

They were sat on the blanket in the meadow again, this time eating strawberries that they picked from the purple flowers.

 

“What do you do for a living?” Kyle asked.

“I work in retail. It’s shit, to be honest! You?”

“I think I’m in school”.

“You think?”

“Well, I have memories, but some of them are blurry. I remember things like my mum’s name, how to ride a bike, things I enjoy and things I don’t. But some things are-...”   
“Blurry?”   
“In lack of a better word”.

Chester nodded. “So what are some things you enjoy?”

“I like video games, old movies, classic rock music, jazz as well. Um, I’d say I like pizza, but everyone likes pizza”.

“I don’t!”

“What? How can you not like pizza?” Kyle close to yelled.

“It’s the tomato stuff! I don’t like anything tomatoes”, Chester explained.

“You’re kidding? That’s like the best part!”

“God, no!”

“What do you like then?”

“Well, I like pasta, burgers - without ketchup or tomatoes, of course, sushi-...”   
“Wait, so you don’t like tomatoes, but you eat raw fish?”

 

Chester nudged the other boy’s shoulder and picked another strawberry, smiling to himself. The flower came loose with it, and he ended up just looking at it. The flower was turning blue in his pale hand. He separated it from the strawberry, then put the flower behind Kyle’s ear.

Kyle grinned at him.

 

“How do I look?”

Chester was silent for a while, contemplating it. “Beautiful”, he decided on.

 

Now it was Kyle’s turn to be silent. They both just stared at each other for a few minutes, then Kyle was leaning in. Chester did as well.

 

Suddenly, Chester was crying again. It might not hurt Kyle getting shot in Chester’s dreams, but Chester felt nothing but pain when he woke up. He hurt every time he had to watch Kyle die, unable to do anything about it. He hurt, because they’d been so close, but millimeters apart still wasn’t close enough.

 

The tenth night was almost a little awkward for the two. They were walking through the yellow grass, both trying to figure out what to say. Who should say something first, and what? They had lots to talk about, but the words just wouldn’t come out.

Finally, Chester stopped and pulled the other back. Kyle turned around, a confused expression painting his face as he looked down at their entwined fingers, then back up at Chester as it dawned on him. They both leaned in, and finally their lips met.

Around them, the purple flowers turned orange and broke free from their stalks. They flew away with the breeze, now in the shape of butterflies.

 

Kyle broke the kiss and took a step back. Chester noticed the butterflies, then smiled down at Kyle who was now wearing a pained expression. Chester’s smile faded as he saw the blood on the other boy’s shirt.

 

“No”, was all he could manage, as Kyle fell to the ground.

This time, something was different. Chester didn’t wake up. He was crying, but he was still dreaming.

He sat down next to Kyle and did his best to stop the bleeding.

 

“No, no, no! Kyle? Kyle?”

“I think you’re beautiful, too!”

 

Hearing the pain in Kyle’s voice broke him, now completely.

 

“I remember! Chess, I remember everything clearly now”, Kyle stuttered.

 

He managed a smile before he stopped breathing.

It was one thing to see someone die holding your hand, but it was another thing to hold them close and watch them slowly fade away, feeling so much pain.

It hurt a billion times more, and this time he couldn’t wake up.

 

“He’s awake!” Chester heard a distant voice call.

 

Then a bright light blinded him, and another voice kept saying, “Mr. Morgan? Mr. Morgan, can you hear me?”

  
  


It had been a few weeks since Chester had woken up, and he’d just gotten home. The doctors had told him that he’d been in a coma for close to three weeks. He wouldn’t believe them at first. His wife assured him they weren’t lying, but his memory of her was vague.

“Where’s Kyle?” he’d asked her, and she’d told him she didn’t know anyone named Kyle, so naturally he’d accused her of lying as well.

But now, here they were, in their small apartment, and Kyle and the meadow was fading away.

The red sky was fading away. The yellow grass with the purple flowers were fading away. And the scent of the cotton candy breeze was completely gone.

 

“Do you want some tea, honey?” his wife asked as she entwined their fingers. Chester looked down at their hands, the touch not feeling right.

He looked up at her with a blank expression. He knew her, remembered her, remembered why he loved her. But loved is a word past tense. She looked worried, and he found himself thinking that she deserves better.

“I’ll go make us some tea, yeah? Just have a seat on the couch, and I’ll be right back”.

 

Chester walked around the apartment, trying to feel something,  _ anything _ , by just looking at every piece of furniture, every decoration on the shelves, and every painting on the walls.

One painting looked more familiar than the rest. It was a painting of a landscape - a meadow with yellow grass and purple flowers. The sky was red, and the clouds were white and pink, looking almost like cotton candy. In the bottom right corner was the name  _ Chester Morgan. _

He’d made this painting.

 

His wife came up to him then, two cups in her hands.

 

“I always liked this painting”, she said.

 

“I remember! Kyle, I remember everything so clearly now”, he said. Not to his wife, but to the dream, hanging on his wall.


End file.
